Pleasure For Pleasure (33 page)

S
omehow she'd ended up falling asleep in Darlington's arms again. It was all too easy, now that Josie was married and she had returned to her own little house. He came for tea, and before she knew it, she was in his hackney…

Why shouldn't she marry him? Griselda asked herself. People would make jokes. They would make fun of her. They would say she was baby-stealing. She looked at the tumble of hair next to her again.

Sometimes he seemed older than she. There were people like that, people who were old before their time.

And he needed her. She would lead him to a happier relation with his father, and stop him from being spurned by his family. She would celebrate his writing.

Perhaps she should wake him and tell him her decision?

It would do him no harm to worry. She swung her toes out of bed as quietly as she could. Thank goodness he didn't have servants, the way every other person did. Her clothes were in a crumpled heap in the entryway; Griselda had to stop and press her hands to her hot cheeks once, from the pure shame of it.

She wasn't quite certain how to get home. She would have asked a footman to fetch her a hackney, but Darlington had told the servants not to return until noon.

She almost woke Darlington up, but now she was wedded to the idea of making him beg a few more times. It was all so…delicious. Why shouldn't she be courted, like other women? He should bring her roses, and a poem or two. The idea of a poem written by Darlington made her giggle.

She didn't know his neighborhood all that well, but surely Fleet Street lay just to the right? Within a moment of walking she glimpsed the large thoroughfare where she would certainly be able to call a hackney.

When a carriage slowed to a stop next to her, she turned to it gladly. She hadn't welcomed the idea of hailing a carriage—rather vulgar, to wave her hand for all to see—and it was far better that one had…

That was not a hackney.

In fact, it was a carriage she knew quite well, almost as well as she knew her own. A footman leaped from the back and held open the door.

There was nothing for it, so she entered.

“Lady Blechschmidt,” Griselda said, sitting down with as
much dignity as was possible. Her hair was bundled into a simple knot. She had done little more than wash her face. If Emily Blechschmidt glimpsed her dinner dress being worn in the morning, it would be instantly apparent that she hadn't been home since the previous day.

“Lady Griselda.”

Emily Blechschmidt was at least six years older than she. As always, she was dressed with the kind of sober elegance that invited no untoward glance.

I was getting to be like that, Griselda thought to herself. I could have become like Emily, who isn't even forty, but is one of the fiercest moralists in the
ton,
quite as sharp-tongued as an old maid of eighty.

For a moment the carriage was utterly silent. Griselda's mind was racing. Why did it have to be Emily whose coach drove by, Emily, who was known far and wide for her fierce and dogmatic views of unchaste behavior and loose women?

For her part, Emily had taken one swift look at Griselda Willoughby and known exactly how Griselda had spent her night. After all, Emily had spent her entire life watching the
ton
from the sidelines, watching as men and women fell into each other's arms, danced into the garden together, gave each other secret smiles from the chaperone's corner. It made her angry; it made her feel sick with longing; it made her feel small. She prided herself on her sharp tongue when it came to loose women, on her sizzling pronouncements when it came to hurly-burly debutantes.

To Emily, Griselda's imperfect hair and sleepy eyes meant that she should, of course, spurn her friend. Even if they had been friends for years.

But there were times when a woman had to put aside morality and ethics.

“You never asked me why I was at Grillon's Hotel when you saw me there last year,” she said finally.

Griselda was staring down at her hands, but she looked up. “It wasn't my place.”

“I think it should be,” Emily said. “If we're to be friends.”

Griselda's smile was a little lopsided. “I rather thought we were friends.”

“We have been acquaintances,” Emily told her. “You would be horrified by what I was doing at the hotel.”

Griselda's smile grew wider. “I promise you that I won't be.”

“You will be.” Emily was silent for a moment. But she was tired of all the silence, and besides, that
affaire
was over. “I'll never do such a thing again.”

Griselda nodded. “Unless you wish to.”

“I don't wish to. I'm bitterly ashamed of myself.”

Griselda didn't seem to share her feelings of shame, so Emily realized that Griselda probably had a wedding in her future. “You couldn't understand.”

“Actually, I do,” Griselda said. “I really do. After all, Emily, I myself…” Her voice trailed off.

“I would gather that you just spent a night with a gentleman.”

“I believe,” Griselda said, “that I shall marry the gentleman in question, Emily. I believe I shall.”

There was silence between them again. But Emily felt—had felt for weeks—that if she didn't tell someone, her heart would crack open. “I too had an
affaire,
” she cried, hearing the wildness in her own voice.

Griselda smiled at her. “I guessed that.”

“But I've been so moralistic, so disparaging of others,” Emily said. “You have always been chaste in your behavior, but you have rarely passed judgment on others. Do you loathe me?”

“No,” Griselda said without hesitation.

“You will,” Emily said. “You will.”

Griselda blinked. “A married man?” she asked.

“Worse,” Emily said.

“Worse?”

Emily couldn't look at her anymore. “Much worse,” she whispered.

“I can't think,” Griselda said. “A servant?”

“Servants are just
men,
married or unmarried; they're just
men
!”

“Then—” Griselda's mouth fell open. “You—”

“Gemima,” Emily said, and her voice was hard, saying it. “Lady Gemima.”

“She's enchanting,” Griselda said after one gaping second. “Are you and she…”

Emily could feel the tears boiling up in her throat, all the tears that she couldn't shed because no one—
no one
—could know the terrible things she'd done. “No!” She couldn't even look at Griselda. But a moment later a soft handkerchief was put in her hand, and Griselda's arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Don't cry, Emily,” Griselda said, and it didn't sound as if she were going to throw open the carriage door and jump out from pure disgust. “Don't cry. Gemima is lovely. If I—if—well, she's so funny, and nice.”

“She's—She's
not
nice,” Emily wept. “She—She—” She broke down and after that she didn't even understand the things she tried to say because they were so mortified and despairing that they couldn't be put properly into words.

After a while the carriage stopped. Somehow they ended up in Griselda's snug little drawing room, and the whole story came out in bits and sobs, and Griselda rocking Emily against her shoulder, just as if she weren't the most immoral woman on the face of the earth.

“You see,” Emily said, her voice a little hoarse from the crying, “she's going abroad. And she's—she's taking her new friend with her, and that's all there is to it.”

“I'm so sorry,” Griselda said. She handed her a cup of tea. “Gemima has made a terrible mistake.”

“Why shouldn't Gemima fall in love? And with such a perfect woman in every way,” Emily said despairingly. “Perfect!”

“As are you. But who can tell why these things happen?”

“It's because I've been so unsympathetic to others. I've thought and thought about it in the last fortnight, and I know why this has happened, why Gemima fell in love with someone else. It's my just desert. Fate has dealt me a blow because I deserved it.”

“Nonsense,” Griselda said. “Sympathy follows experience, Emily. I'm sure you could never be indifferent to the foibles of others. But you were never heartless. You're being far too harsh on yourself.”

Emily sniffed, and put away her handkerchief. Crying was such an odd thing. She'd wet her pillows every night, but it only made her feel weak and ill. But one good cry into Griselda's shoulder and she felt it might be possible to face tomorrow. “Whoever he is, he doesn't deserve you,” she said damply.

Griselda laughed. “That's a given. As you wisely pointed out, he is a
man
.”

Emily had to smile a bit at that. “Oh,” she said, “I do have some news for you too, Griselda.”

Griselda looked up from the teapot.

“It's about Hellgate.”

“They've discovered who wrote the
Memoirs
?” Griselda asked.

“Exactly. It's so fascinating: Mayne can't have more than the slimmest acquaintance with the author.”

“What sort of person is he?” Griselda asked, carefully refreshing the hot water. “We decided that he must be a devout reader of the gossip pages.”

“It's much more interesting than that,” Emily said, accept
ing a pyramid cream. “This looks absolutely delicious! How does your cook make it?”

“It's her own recipe,” Griselda said, “and she guards it fiercely. I do know that it takes hartshorn shavings and blanched almonds. I think the prettiest part is the way she cuts up the lemon peel into the shape of leaves.”

“Yes, and stacks them up so neatly. My cook could never do this. She's quite good at ordinary things, you know. Like fricassee of turnips.” She made a face and Griselda laughed. “But really, you won't believe who wrote that book.”

Griselda frowned.

“You've forgotten what we were talking about,” Emily accused. Griselda turned pink again. “That's because you're in love. Ah well, I shall dance at your wedding.”

Griselda's smile had a deep happiness that would have made Emily bitter, except she didn't feel bitter any longer. “Now listen,” Emily said. “This is the most fascinating
on dit
I've heard all season.”

“Better than Count Burnet's divorce petition? I must say that I find it difficult to forget the details of Burnet's home life, at least as the servants described it.”

“I didn't believe the half of those stories,” Emily said. “No, this is fascinating because he was one of
us,
Griselda!”

“Who? Hellgate?”

“Hellgate was your own brother, as we all believe. No—the author!” She leaned forward. “His name was discovered by a most enterprising reporter working for
The Tatler
.”

Griselda pulled her thoughts away from Portman Square and the blond man who had undoubtedly risen from his bed by now.

“Fascinating,” she said. “Surprise me!”

T
he letter arrived along with all of the mail, except that the butler, Cockburn, handed it to her instead of Mayne by accident.

Josie stared down at it, her fingers suddenly cold.

Neatly printed on the upper left was the name of the writer:
Sylvie de la Broderie
.

Sylvie was writing to Mayne? Why? What could she possibly wish to say? He was married.

The possibilities raced through Josie's mind. She barely caught herself before she cast the letter into the fire.

The sick, muddled feeling beat at her stomach and at her heart too. She would like to kill Sylvie and her slender figure.

“Unladylike,” Josie muttered to herself. But when had she ever cared for ladylike activities? Ladies never read other people's mail.

She wouldn't do that.

Ladies never eavesdropped.

Some rules are meant to be broken. Likely Mayne would rip it open and read the note quickly. Likely Sylvie was writing to ask for advice, or to wish him the best on his marriage. That must be it. Of course. Sylvie had exquisite manners.

If she betrayed even the least interest in her husband's letter, she would seem gauche and ridiculous. There was only one way to achieve unconcern.

By stealth.

When the Earl of Mayne returned to his study that afternoon, he found three letters waiting for him, precisely squared in the center of his blotting paper. He was still chilled from watching his most promising filly, Argent, canter around and around the training yard, so he scooped up his letters and strolled over to the fire.

Which allowed his wife, cozily seated on the floor behind the great velvet curtains, a perfect view of his face and hands.

He ripped open Felton's letter first.
It's done,
he read to himself.
Ardmore took to the task with an enthusiasm likely resulting from his personal experiences with this sort of mongrel. We finished the business by offering Thurman's services to the crew of a slow whaler on its way to Newfoundland. They needed a scrub hand for the deck.
Mayne grinned. He owed Felton one. And Ardmore. It was a good feeling to have brothers-in-law. Men to watch your back.

The second letter he opened was from Griselda. He raised
an eyebrow. His sister rarely took a hysterical tone, and yet there was a definite trace of hysteria in her words.

He must return to London at once. He must make all haste, in fact, he must leave that very night. He must give her deepest apologies to Josie, but he must return. That last word was underlined three times, and he thought he could even see the blur of a tear. What the devil was that about?

He turned over the sheaf of foolscap only to see that Griselda had apparently realized that he would wish for more information.
About Hellgate,
she'd scribbed.
Those infernal
Memoirs.
Come at once and say nothing about my letter. I must ask you to say nothing to your wife as well
.

Mayne sighed. The only good thing about all of this was that he didn't have to make the two-hour coach ride by himself, bouncing along on the indifferent springs. He was married now. He and Josie could…amuse themselves for a few hours.

He tipped Griselda's note into the fire and turned to his other missive. Why in the hell was his former fiancée writing him? Not that he didn't wish her well, because of course he did. But there was no question in his mind that if he never saw Sylvie de la Broderie again, it wouldn't grieve him.

He leaned against the fireplace and opened the letter. It was scented, an affectation he found unappealing, so he held it away from himself.

But then, reading her delicate French hand, he felt himself easing into all the charm and loveliness that was Sylvie. He hadn't loved her for nothing, after all, although it was hard to remember the reasons when Josie was around.

For a moment he stared blindly over the sheet. Compared to Sylvie, Josie was everything warm and sensual and delicious. His love for Sylvie—if one could even call it that—seemed a paltry, brittle thing in contrast, based on nothing more than her charm.

Because she was charming.

My dearest Mayne,
Sylvie wrote.
I wish to write you to assure you that I am not désolée over your marriage to little Josie.

Little Josie? Compared to Josie, Sylvie was a spindly, scrawny thing. I'd be bedding that frosty twig, but for the luck of the devil, he thought to himself. And couldn't help grinning.

I am exhausted by the constant round of parties in London,
the letter continued. Mayne could just imagine. Sylvie couldn't say no to an invitation; there were nights when they had attended three parties in a row, one after the other.
I have decided to take a small trip with my close friend, Lady Gemima. She has persuaded me that Belgium is as delicious as France, and we are determined to recover ourselves. To be honest, Mayne, I am hesitant, but I do long to leave London for a short time. Somehow, I miss my Paris more than ever these days, and a change will be beneficial.

Mayne thought about that for a moment. Gemima was a great gun, as everyone called her. She would take care of Sylvie. Or rather, all those attendants she carried about with her would do the chore. In fact, Sylvie would likely have the time of her life.

I did not want to leave without saying farewell to you, best of friends. But I am saddened by the thought that you might have suffered some loss of esteem that drove you into a hasty marriage. I have come to believe that I myself am not made for marriage. But I shall always carry the greatest regard for you in my heart, dearest Mayne. You are the only gentleman of my acquaintance with whom I could have countenanced such an undertaking, and I am only troubled at the thought that you might carry a lingering sense of insult, given the graceless way by which I ended our affections.

She was a good little thing, was Sylvie. A good, sweet lady who didn't want him—or anyone else, as it seemed. But loving her hadn't been a
shameful waste,
as Josie described
his
affaires
. In fact, it had been a fairly decent thing to do, on the whole. He wasn't always a fool. Just once in a while.

Adieu,
she wrote.
I wish all the greatest happiness for yourself and Josie. I think you shall find it together
. At that, a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

He raised the letter to his lips and smelled, one more time, the complicated French scent that symbolized Sylvie—all her femininity, her delicacy, her Frenchness. Her wrongness for him.

Then, with one sharp twist of his wrist, he threw her letter in the fire.

And walked out of the room to find Josie. He had a mind to make Josie laugh. To see her crinkle her nose at him and maybe—just maybe—he would snatch her up and throw her on the bed, just to hear her deep chuckle, the one she gave when she was excited, and giving in, and about to kiss him as if she would never stop.